Fable II.
The Ant and the Grasshopper.

’Twas that bleak season of the year,
In which no smiles, no charms appear;
Bare were the trees; the rivers froze;
The hills and mountains capt with snows;
When, lodging scarce and victuals scant,
A Grasshopper address’d an Ant:
And, in a supplicating tone,
Begg’d he would make her case his own.
“It was, indeed, a bitter task
To those who were unused to ask;
Yet she was forc’d the truth to say,
She had not broke her fast that day;
His worship, tho’, with plenty bless’d,
Knew how to pity the distress’d;
A grain of corn to her was gold,
And Heav’n would yield him fifty-fold.”
The Ant beheld her wretched plight,
Nor seem’d unfeeling at the sight;
Yet, still inquisitive to know
How she became reduc’d so low,
Asked her—we’ll e’en suppose in rhyme—
What she did all the summer time?
“In summer time, good sir,” said she,
“Ah! these were merry months with me!
I thought of nothing but delight,
And sung, Lord, help me! day and night:
Through yonder meadows did you pass,
You must have heard me in the grass.”
“Ah!” cry’d the Ant, and knit his brow—
“But ’tis enough I hear you now;
And, Madam Songstress, to be plain,
You seek my charity in vain:
What, shall th’ industrious yield his due
To thriftless vagabonds like you!
Some corn I have, but none to spare,
Next summer learn to take more care;
And in your frolic moods, remember,
July is follow’d by December.”

Fable III.
The Wolf and the Dog.

A prowling Wolf, that scour’d the plains,
To ease his hunger’s griping pains,
Ragged as courtier in disgrace,
Hide-bound, and lean, and out of case,
By chance a well-fed Dog espy’d,
And being kin, and near ally’d,
He civilly salutes the cur:
“How do you, Cuz? Your servant, sir.
O happy friend! how gay thy mien!
How plump thy sides, how sleek thy skin!
Triumphant plenty shines all o’er,
And the fat melts at ev’ry pore!
While I, alas! decay’d and old,
With hunger pin’d, and stiff with cold,
With many a howl and hideous groan,
Tell the relentless woods my moan.
Pr’ythee (my happy friend!) impart
Thy wondrous, cunning, thriving art.”
“Why, faith, I’ll tell thee as a friend,
But first thy surly manners mend;
Be complaisant, obliging, kind,
And leave the Wolf for once behind.”
The Wolf, whose mouth began to water,
With joy and rapture gallop’d after,
When thus the Dog: “At bed and board,
I share the plenty of my lord;
From ev’ry guest I claim a fee,
Who court my lord by bribing me.
In mirth I revel all the day,
And many a game at romps I play:
I fetch and carry, leap o’er sticks,
With twenty such diverting tricks.”
“’Tis pretty, faith,” the Wolf reply’d,
And on his neck the collar spy’d:
He starts, and without more ado,
He bids the abject wretch adieu:
“Enjoy your dainties, friend; to me
The noblest feast is liberty:
The famish’d Wolf, upon these desert plains,
Is happier than a fawning cur in chains.”

Fable IV.
The Nightingale.

How few with patience can endure
The evils they themselves procure.
A Nightingale, with snares beset,
At last was taken in a net:
When first she found her wings confin’d,
She beat and flutter’d in the wind,
Still thinking she could fly away;
Still hoping to regain the spray:
But, finding there was no retreat,
Her little heart with anger beat;
Nor did it aught abate her rage;
To be transmitted to a cage.
The wire apartment, tho’ commodious,
To her appear’d excessive odious;
And though it furnish’d drink and meat,
She car’d not, for she could not eat;
’Twas not supplying her with food;
She lik’d to gather it from the wood:
And water clear, her thirst to slake,
She chose to sip from the cool lake:
And, when she sung herself to rest,
’Twas in what hedge she lik’d the best:
And thus, because she was not free,
Hating the chain of slavery,
She rather added link to link:
—Just so men reach misfortune’s brink.
At length, revolving on her state,
She cries, “I might have met worse fate,
Been seiz’d by kites or prowling cat,
Or stifled in a school boy’s hat;
Or been the first unlucky mark,
Sure hit by some fantastic spark.”
Then conscience told her, want of care
Had made her fall into the snare;
That men were free their nets to throw;
And birds were free to come or go:
And all the evils she lamented,
By caution might have been prevented.
So, on her perch more pleas’d she stood,
And peck’d the kindly offer’d food;
Resolv’d, with patience, to endure
Ills she had brought, but could not cure.

Fable V.
The Two Foxes.

Two hungry Foxes once agreed
To execute a bloody deed,
And make the farmer’s poultry bleed.
Thus, as their rage was very hot,
Cocks, hens, and chickens went to pot.
The one (the slaughter being o’er)
Young, and a perfect epicure,
Propos’d on all the spoil to sup,
And at one meal to eat it up.
The other old, at heart a miser,
Refus’d his scheme, and thought it wiser
To lay aside some of the prey,
And so provide for a bad day.
“Listen, my child,” says he, “to age;
Experience has made me sage:
I know the various turns of fate:
How changeable is every state!
A mighty treasure we have found;
Success has all our wishes crown’d;
See! the vast havoc all around!
Oh let us not be lavish, son,
Nor throw away what we have won!
Oh let us not consume our store,
But, being frugal, make it more!”
“Your fine harangue,” replies the other,
“Might take, were I a griping brother:
But, as I’m generous and free,
It ne’er shall have effect on me.
I’ll live, old daddy, while I may
Indulge my noble self with prey,
And feast in spite of all you say.
But should I not—why, to our sorrow,
The fowls will stink before to-morrow.
If we return—the clown will watch us;
And, hang the dog, he’ll surely catch us:
In ambush he will watch our waters,
Or else with dogs beat up our quarters.”
This said, each fox himself obey’d,
Pursu’d the scheme that he had laid.
The younger one fell to the meat;—
And died o’ercharg’d with what he eat.
The old one, as with joy next morning,
To his hid spoil he was returning,
Ta’en by the farmer in surprise,
Fell by his hand a sacrifice.
Thus each man has his ruling passion,
And ev’ry age its inclination:
The young are heedless in their measures,
And boundless in pursuit of pleasures:
The old are all persuasion past,
Positive, and griping to the last.

Fable VI.
The Butterfly and Boy.

’Twas on a day serene and fair,
The sun was bright and æther clear,
The rocking winds were lull’d to rest,
And ev’ry murmuring gale supprest;
When, tempted by th’ alluring heat,
A Fly forsook her dark retreat
To taste the sweetness of the skies,
And tinge her wings with various dyes;
Restless she rov’d her narrow tour,
And borrow’d paint from ev’ry flow’r;
Till, deck’d with all the insect grace,
She sparkled fairest of her race.
In all her splendour, pomp, and pride,
The winged-gem a Boy espy’d;
Who, pleas’d to see how bright it shone,
Resolv’d to make the prize his own;
And straight with speed began to trace
The gilded Fly from place to place:
But, conscious of some danger near,
The Butterfly her course would steer,
Now high, then low, now here, then there,
To balk the aim, or shun the blow
She justly dreaded from her foe.
The Lad, still eager to pursue
The Fly that always kept in view,
Thro’ many a lane and meadow went,
His soul so on the prize was bent,
Undaunted ran from morn to noon,
To gain the heart-enchanting boon.
At length, when sweat bedew’d his face,
And almost weary of the chase,
The Fly in evil hour is caught,
And homewards by the conqueror brought;
Who vainly hop’d, the glorious spoil
Would more than recompense his toil;
But while, with pleasure and surprise,
Her form and beauty feast his eyes,
The Fly escapes, and mounts the skies,
With rallied force augments her flight,
And quick evades his keenest sight;
Then he, deluded youth! gave o’er
All hope to find the booty more.
Enrag’d condemns his cruel fate,
And wept his folly—but too late.
Thus foolish mortals waste their days,
In seeking pleasures, wealth, and praise;
They hunt for honours, titles, fame,
And risk their souls to gain a—name;
Chase every glitt’ring toy they spy,
Just as the Lad pursu’d the Fly,
And e’er they grasp the bauble—die.

Fable VII.
The Hounds in Couples.

Wedlock, a name not much in fashion,
Subservient ofttimes is to passion.
How oft we see a thoughtless pair,
Brought up by Nature’s fost’ring care,
When love first fires their youthful breast,
Pant with impatience to be blest:
Tempers unstudied! thoughts untried!
Yet sigh, alas! to be allied.
Because their hours of courtship run
Sweet, under love’s meridian sun,
They think to breathe a tranquil life,
And be the happy man and wife.
Vain thought!—the flatt’ring phantom flies,
And opes at length their purblind eyes.
Then—— but attend my simple story,
The sequel will appear before ye.
The morning dawns, with orient sky,
Clad with its purple royalty,
Once more’s the throne of infant day,
And all th’ horizon round looks gay.
The horn deep-ton’d the huntsman fills,
The strains re-echo from the hills;
Unkennell’d for the bloody chase,
Impatient rush the babbling race:
Some, widely stretching o’er the plain,
Vocif’rous chaunt the heedless train;
These stretch their limbs, while others bound
In wanton circles o’er the ground.
The squire survey’d with secret pride
The mottled pack on either side:
The puppies did not ’scape his view;
Their youthful tricks were pleasing too.
But lest a part unskill’d, and young,
Should lead the rest with lavish tongue,
It was decreed they should be tied,
And trudge in couples, side by side.
To Ringwood, Sweetlips was assign’d:
These two with patience jogg’d behind.
To Trueman, so ’twas doom’d by fate,
Maiden was yok’d as trav’lling mate:
In these an early fondness grew,
If he did this, she’d do so too;
From Maiden Trueman scarce would stray,
But spent with her the livelong day;
For her the half-pick’d bone he’d spare,
And guard her with a lover’s care.
If he in playful frolic run,
Or bask’d beneath th’ enlivening sun,
As sure she would his steps attend,
Or near his side her length extend.
From one calm mind their actions grew;
But now, alas! they spring from two.
Divided cares invade each breast;
Divided thoughts and interest;
Now ’tis they feel the galling chain,
And howl for liberty again.
To join the pack if he’s inclin’d,
She with slow pace will drag behind:
He this way draws, she tugs another,
They prove tormentors to each other.
Now boldly they exert their might,
Snarl answers snarl—bite follows bite;
With double ire their fury burns,
And gains them mastership by turns.
But strength victorious rules the field,
To force superior all must yield:
At length subdued the fair one lies,
And calls assistance by her cries;
But ah! in vain, no succour’s near,
The hunt pursue the tim’rous hare.
Too late she sees from whence arose
The source of all her bleeding woes:
Secluded now from every friend,
Her sorrows but with life can end,
What’s to be done—reflection’s vain,
And serves but to increase her pain;
Quite spent, she howling yields her life,
A prey to discontent and strife.

Fable VIII.
The Sow and the Peacock.

In days of yore, as authors tell,
When beasts and birds could read and spell,
No matter where, in town or city,
There liv’d a Swine exceeding witty;
And, for the beauties of her mind,
Excelling all her bristl’d kind:
But yet, to mortify her pride,
She found at last her failing side.
Philosophy she had good store,
Had ponder’d Seneca all o’er;
Yet all precautions useless prove
Against the pow’r of mighty love.
It happen’d on a sultry day,
Upon her fav’rite couch she lay,—
’Twas a round dunghill soft and warm,
O’ershadow’d by a neighb’ring barn,—
When lo, her winking eyes behold
A creature with a neck of gold,
With painted wings and gorgeous train,
That sparkled like the starry plain:
His neck and breast all brilliant shine
Against the sun. The dazzl’d Swine,
Who never saw the like before,
Began to wonder and adore;
But seeing him so fair and nice,
She left her dunghill in a trice;
And, fond to please, the grunting elf
Began to wash and trim herself;
And from the stinking pool she run
To dry her carcase in the sun;
And rubb’d her sides against a tree:
And now, as clean as hogs can be,
With cautious air and doubtful breast,
The glitt’ring Peacock thus address’d:
“Sir, I, a homely rural Swine,
Can boast of nothing fair nor fine,
No dainties in our troughs appear,
But, as you seem a stranger here,
Be pleas’d to walk into my sty,
A little hut as plain as I.
Pray venture through the humble door;
And tho’ your entertainment’s poor,
With me you shall be sure to find
An open heart and honest mind;
And that’s a dainty seldom found
On cedar floors and city ground.”
Thus far the Sow had preach’d by rule,
She preach’d, alas! but to a fool;
For this same Peacock, you must know,
Had he been man, had been a beau:
And spoke, like them, but mighty little
That to the point could tend a tittle:
And with an air that testify’d
He’d got at least his share of pride,
He thus began: “Why, truly now,
You’re very civil, Mrs Sow:
But I am very clean, d’ye see;
Your sty is not a place for me.
Should I go through that narrow door,
My feathers might be soil’d or tore;
Or scented with unsav’ry fumes:
And what am I without my plumes?”
The much offended Sow replies,
And turns asquint her narrow eyes,
“Sir, you’re incorrigibly vain,
To value thus a shining train;
For when the northern wind shall blow,
And send us hail, and sleet, and snow,
How will you save from such keen weathers,
Your merit—sir, I mean your feathers?
As for myself,—to think that I
Should lead an idiot to my sty,
Or strive to make an oaf my friend,
Makes all my bristles stand on end:
But for the future, when I see
A bird that much resembles thee,
I’ll ever make it as a rule,
The shining case contains a fool.”

Fable IX.
The King-Dove.

Thousands, who start at Nero’s name,
With Nero’s power would act the same;
And few in humble spheres can know
How much to want of pow’r they owe—
The passions sleep unrous’d by might,
As objects lie forgot in night;
Tho’ unregarded till they’re seen,
They both exist beneath the screen,
And Sol returning, grandeur near,
The passions rise, and shapes appear:
And e’en a dove, the Fable tells,
Begirt with pow’r a tyrant swells—
Thus runs the tale—Between the Kite
And Doves there chanc’d a fatal fight,
Before his force their numbers fled,
The victor on the captives fed—
What can be done?—they pine, they grieve,
The spar’d can scarce be said to live.—
At last, their king Columbo’s call
Commands the senate to the hall:
Columbo, best of doves and kings,
Up-rising clapt his painted wings,
Then thus harangu’d ’em from above,
And spake the monarch, and the Dove—
“My suff’ring friends, with grief and pain
I fear we meet but to complain;
Yet my fond bosom fain would know
Your thoughts of our relentless foe—
If any, blest with skill to save,
Have plann’d the proud oppressor’s grave,
Whatever perils shall attend
A scheme to save one bleeding friend,
I’ll meet, I’ll vanquish, or no more
Return to this opprobrious shore:
For oh! to steal the tyrant’s breath,
I’d perch upon the dart of death.”
He ceas’d, and soft applauses sprung
From ev’ry heart to ev’ry tongue:
Then one arose among the rest,
And mov’d,—That Jove might be addrest,
Arms on their monarch to bestow,
Like those so dreadful on their foe.
The rest consent, the pray’r is made,
Jove will’d, and Nature straight obey’d.
Columbo feels his form distend,
His beak grow crook’d, claws extend;
On his increasing strength presumes,
And pleas’d he shakes his alter’d plumes,
To single combat dares the foe,
And deep imprints the fatal blow.
The Kite expires,—and peace again
Reviv’d to bless Columbo’s reign.
But flush’d with conquest, proud in arms,
He longs, he pants, for fresh alarms,
And to himself elated thought—
“Had I these gifts of Jove for nought?”
Now swelling high with proud disdain,
He scorns his meek, his peaceful train;
A thousand wives the monarch claims,
And seizes all their fairest dames;
A thousand slaves attend his will,
A thousand nests his treasures fill;
None for themselves eat, sleep, or love,
’Tis all the King’s—imperial Dove!
Too noble grown for common food,
He longs to taste of pigeon’s blood;
Nor long the appetite withstood.
With treble anguish now they moan
A wide destroyer on their throne,
Despairing drag the galling chain,
And vainly curse Columbo’s reign.
This fatal change let man informed pursue,
Catch rising truths from every fabled view,
And learn from hence no dang’rous pow’r to trust,
E’en with the wise, the gentle, and the just.
Since e’en that pow’r less prompts to good than ill,
And bends to vice vain man’s unequal will—
Wrongs to redress ne’er arm alone your friend,
But, cloth’d in equal might, his steps attend;
Let equal arms your injur’d rights maintain,
Divide the strength, the labours, honours, gain:
Still on a level, tho’ with conquest bright,
No traitor thoughts shall rise from matchless might:
Peace with her genuine charms shall either bless,
And just dependencies prevent excess.

Fable X.
The Camelion.

Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly serv’d at most
To guard their master ’gainst a post,
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finish’d tour,
Grown ten times perter than before,
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell’d fool your mouth will stop;
“Sir, if my judgment you’ll allow—
I’ve seen—and sure I ought to know”—
So begs you’d pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o’er Arabia’s wild they past,
And on their way in friendly chat
Now talk’d of this, and then of that,
Discours’d a while ’mongst other matter,
Of the Camelion’s form and nature.
“A stranger animal,” cries one,
“Sure never liv’d beneath the sun:
A lizard’s body lean and long,
A fish’s head, a serpent’s tongue;
Its tooth with triple claw disjoin’d;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace, and then its hue—
Who ever saw so fine a blue?”
“Hold there,” the other quick replies,
“’Tis green—I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm’d itself in sunny ray;
Stretch’d at its ease the beast I view’d,
And saw it eat the air for food.”
“I’ve seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue:
At leisure I the beast survey’d,
Extended in the cooling shade.”
“’Tis green, ’tis green, sir, I assure ye.”
“Green!” cries the other in a fury.
“Why, sir—d’ye think I’ve lost my eyes?”
“’Twere no great loss,” the friend replies;
“For, if they always serve you thus,
You’ll find ’em but of little use.”
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third—
To him the question they refer’d;
And begg’d he’d tell ’em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
“Sirs,” cries the umpire, “cease your pother—
The creature’s neither one nor t’other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view’d it o’er by candle light:
I mark’d it well—’twas black as jet—
You stare—but, sirs, I’ve got it yet,
And can produce it.” “Pray, sir, do:
I’ll lay my life, the thing is blue.”
“And I’ll be sworn, that when you’ve seen
The reptile, you’ll pronounce him green.”
“Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,”
Replies the man, “I’ll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I’ve set him,
If you don’t find him black, I’ll eat him.”
He said; then full before their sight
Produc’d the beast, and lo! ’twas white.
Both star’d, the man look’d wondrous wise—
“My children,” the Camelion cries,
Then first the creature found a tongue,
“You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see, as well as you:
Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own.”

Fable XI.
The Three Warnings.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
’Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increas’d with years:
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can’t prevail,
Be pleas’d to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson’s wedding-day,
Death call’d aside the jocund groom
With him into another room:
And looking grave,—“You must,” says he,
“Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.”
“With you! and quit my Susan’s side!
With you!” the hapless husband cry’d:
“Young as I am; ’tis monstrous hard;
Besides, in truth, I’m not prepar’d:
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know.”
What more he urg’d I have not heard:
His reasons could not well be stronger;
For Death the poor delinquent spar’d,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembling while he spoke,
“Neighbour,” he said, “Farewell: No more
Shall death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you’re summon’d to the grave,
Willing for once I’ll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve:
In hopes you’ll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way
Well pleas’d the world will leave.”
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv’d, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursu’d his course,—
And smok’d his pipe, and strok’d his horse,—
The willing muse shall tell:
He chaffer’d on, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv’d his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass’d his hours in peace;
But while he view’d his wealth increase,
While thus along life’s dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall’d, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,
Th’ unwelcome messenger of fate,
Once more before him stood.
Half kill’d with anger and surprise,
“So soon return’d!” old Dobson cries:
“So soon, d’ye call it!” Death replies:
“Surely, my friend, you’re but in jest;
Since I was here before,
’Tis six and forty or fifty years at least,
And you are now fourscore.”
“So much the worse,” the clown rejoin’d:
“To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority—Is’t regal?
Else you are come on a fool’s errand,
With but a secretary’s warrant.
Besides, you promis’d me three warnings,
Which I have look’d for nights and mornings.
But, for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages.”
“I know,” cries Death, “that at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don’t be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you’d still be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
I wish you joy tho’ of your strength.”
“Hold,” says the farmer, “not so fast,
I have been lame these four years past.”
“And no great wonder,” Death replies,
“However you still keep your eyes,
And sure to see one’s loves and friends
For legs and arms would make amends.”
“Perhaps,” says Dobson, “so it might,
But latterly I’ve lost my sight.”
“This is a shocking story, faith,
Yet there’s some comfort still,” says Death;
“Each strives your sadness to amuse,
I warrant you hear all the news.”
“There’s none,” cries he, “and if there were
I’m grown so deaf I could not hear.”
“Nay then,” the spectre stern rejoin’d,
“These are unjustifi’ble yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You’ve had your three sufficient warnings.
So come along, no more we’ll part,
He said, and touch’d him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.”

Fable XII.
The Caterpillar and Butterfly.

The morning blush’d with vivid red,
And night in sudden silence fled;
Sad Philomel no more complains,
The lark begins his sprightly strains;
Light paints the flow’rs of various hue,
And sparkles in the pendent dew;
Life moves o’er all the quicken’d green,
And beauty reigns, unrival’d queen.
Green as the leaf, on which he lay,
A Caterpillar wak’d to-day:
And look’d around, and chanc’d to ’spy
A leaf of more inviting dye;
From where he lay he crawl’d, and found
The verdant spot’s indented bound;
Stretch’d from the verge, he strove to gain
The neighb’ring leaf, but strove in vain.
In that nice moment, prompt to save,
A brother worm this warning gave.
“Oh! turn, advent’rous as thou art,
Nor hence, deceiv’d by hope, depart;
What though the leaf, that tempts thee, shows
More tasteful food, more soft repose;
What, though with brighter spangles gay,
Its dew reflects an earlier ray?
Oh! think what dangers guard the prize;
Oh! think what dangers; and be wise!
The pass from leaf to leaf forbear;
Behold how high they wave in air!
And should’st thou fall, tremendous thought!
What ruin would avenge thy fault?
Thy mangled carcase, writh’d with pain,
Shall mark with blood the dusty plain:
Then death, the dread of all below,
Thy wish—will surely end thy woe;
Untimely death, for now to die,
Is ne’er to rise a butterfly.”
“A Butterfly!” th’ Advent’rer cry’d,
“What’s that?” “A bird,” his friend reply’d,
“To which this reptile form shall rise,
And gorgeous mount the lofty skies;
The joyful season time shall bring,
He bears it on his rapid wing.
An age there is, when all our kind,
Disdain the ground, and mount the wind:
And should thy friend this age attain—”
With haste the worm reply’d again,
“Say what assurance canst thou give,
That I with birds a bird shall live?
For could I trust thy pleasing tale,
No wanton wish should e’er prevail;
For what, that worms obtain, can vie
With bliss of birds that wing the sky?”
“Believe my words,” th’ Adviser said,
“Since not of private int’rest bred;
Not on thy life or death depend
My pleasure or my pain—— Attend!
Like thee, to all the future blind,
I knew not wings for worms design’d,
Till yon last sun’s ascending light
Remov’d the dusky shades of night.
Soon as his rays, from heav’n sublime,
Shone on that leaf you wish to climb;
That leaf, which shades, in earliest hours,
This less conspicuous spot of ours:
Surpris’d, a lovely form I saw,
That touch’d me with delight and awe;
’Twas near, and while my looks betray’d
My wonder,” thus the Stranger said:
“If view’d by thee with wond’rous eyes
My graceful shape and vary’d dyes,
New wonder still prepare to feel,
Amazing truths my words reveal:
For know, like thine my humble birth;
Like thee, I crawl’d a worm on earth.”
“Ah! mock me not,” said I, “nor seek
A worthless triumph o’er the weak;
Canst thou, thy form with down o’erspread,
By nature crown’d thy regal head,
Canst thou my reptile shape have worn?
My reptile shape, of all the scorn!
Hast thou! whose gorgeous wings display
Each vary’d tint that drinks the day,
More bright than drops of orient dew,
More gay than flow’rs of gaudiest hue,
With purple edg’d, and fring’d with gold,
Like light, too splendid to behold!
Hast thou, an abject worm like me,
Crawl’d prone on earth! it cannot be.”
“Oh! cease the doubts,” the Stranger cry’d,
“To faith thy happiness ally’d—
Not thrice the morn these eyes have view’d,
Since genial spring my life renew’d;
From death-like slumbers wak’d, I found
A guardian shell invest me round;
The circling shield I broke, nor knew
How long my safety hence I drew;
But soon perceiv’d, and knew the spot,
Where once, a worm, I fix’d my lot;
The past with wonder touch’d my breast,
More wonder still the now imprest,
With pleasure mixt—the pleasure grew,
At ev’ry thought, at ev’ry view;
Transform’d, my unknown pow’r I try,
I wave my wings, I rise! I fly!
Enraptur’d with the blissful change,
From field to field I wanton range;
From flow’r to flow’r, from tree to tree,
And see whate’er I wish to see;
Now glide along the daisy’d ground;
Now wheel in wanton circles round;
Now mount aloft, and sport in air,
Transported, when I will, and where,
Still present, to whate’er invites,
Each moment brings me new delights;
Nor fear allays the joys I know,
The dangers scorn’d that lurk below;
No trampling hoof, my former dread,
Can crush me, mangled, to the dead.
Ev’n man himself pursues, in vain,
My sportive circuit o’er the plain.”
He said, and raptur’d with the thought,
New charms his bright’ning plumage caught,
He clapt his wings, his rapid flight
I trac’d with fond desiring sight,
Oh! glorious state—reserv’d to this,
I risk not life for reptile bliss;
Oh! catch the glowing wish from me,
The same the bliss reserv’d for thee;
Desist from ev’ry rash design,
And beauty, plumes, and wings are thine.
He ceas’d—th’ Advent’rer thus reply’d:
“By thee the fancy’d change be try’d,
The now is mine, the now alone,
The future fate’s—a dark unknown!
To nature’s voice my ears incline;
All lovely, loving, all divine!
To joy she courts, she points the way,
And chides this cold, this dull delay.
Farewell—let hope thy bliss supply,
And count thy gains with fancy’s eye;
Be thine the wings that time shall send,
Believing and obliging friend.”—
He said, and sneering sly disdain,
The neighb’ring leaf attempts to gain;
He falls—all bruis’d on earth he lies;
Too late repents, and groans, and dies.
His friendly monitor, with care,
Avoids each pleasure-baited snare,
False pleasure, false, and fatal too!
Superior joys he keeps in view;
They come—the genial spring supplies
The wings he hoped, and lo! he flies;
Tastes all that summer suns prepare,
And all the joys of earth and air!